


(You're) Strangers here

by MemeKon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Crack, Fluff, Gen, Humor, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Parallel Universes, people.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:24:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemeKon/pseuds/MemeKon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Um, man, you're freaking me out."</p><p>He should talk. Should try and make conversation with the guy, see if that triggers the dream sequence into dissolving.</p><p>"Don't." He says, then. The guy's eyes go even wider than they'd been before. "Keep calm. Please. I'm not capable of dealing with this. I want to wake up."</p><p>"You can't deal with-- You want to-- Oh, God, seriously?" The guy looks up at the ceiling, bringing his hands to his shorn head. "What. The. Hell."</p><p>Okay, maybe that wasn't the best thing to say. But he's always been a little tactless, so whatever else he would've come up with would've surely had the same effect on... Okay, he probably has to man up and stop calling him 'the guy'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a lot of shameless crack. And it was never meant to leave my smartphone. But. But I'm writing something with so much angst, right now. I just can't. So here.  
> I'm sorry.  
> A little.

He's overworked himself. Again. And he's having freaky dreams.

That's the only sane explanation.

"Uhm, man, you're freaking me out." The guy says, fidgetting more than he's ever seen anyone who wasn't Posey fidget. Fidgeting even more than Posey, actually. Which is impressive.

He should talk. Should try and make conversation with the guy, see if that triggers the dream sequence into dissolving.

"Don't." He says, then. The guy's eyes go even wider than they'd been before. "Keep calm. Please. I'm not capable of dealing with this. I want to wake up."

"You can't deal with-- You want to-- Oh, God, seriously?" The guy looks up at the ceiling, bringing his hands to his shorn head. "What. The. Hell."

Okay, maybe that wasn't the best thing to say. But he's always been a little tactless, so whatever else he would've come up with would've surely had the same effect on... Okay, he probably has to man up and stop calling him 'the guy'. 

Whatever else he would've come up with would've probably had the same effect on Stiles.

Stilinski.

The character he plays on Teen Wolf.

A fictional show about shirtless werewolves. And the hunters they sometimes date.

Oh God, let this be a dream and let him wake up, now.

 

When it's been an hour since he woke up here and he still isn't waking up, he starts panicking a little.

He's not that sensitive when he's panicking.

"So, what you are saying is," Stiles breathes in and out, slowly, before going on "that I don't exist, that my whole universe doesn't exist. And that we are characters from a TV show."

Dylan nods, resisting the urge to tug his hair a little. 

"You must be on the good stuff, man." He stares at him for a second or two before asking, "anyway, what's your name?"

This is unreal. This is... Augh, he just doesn't know enough words to describe what this is, in addition to weird and frankly creepy. 

"Well, Mr. I-come-from-another-universe?"

"Dylan." He answers, finally, because if Stiles keeps asking in increasingly annoying ways (the way Dylan's got a dead certainty that he will), Dylan's going to snap and punch him. 

And that would be weirder than seeing him standing in front of himself, that'd be punching his own face, and causing pain to someone he's created.

Mother of God.

"Okay, Dylan. That's a nice name." He almost smiles at how narcissistic that is, but the situation is just too entirely fucked up to even enjoy that. "Dylan, do you remember how you ended up in my room?"

"No." He answers, in all honesty.

The last he can remember is wrapping up the last scene of the night and getting into a cab with Hoechlin, making their way towards the apartment. That's it.

He's still racking his brain for any useful information when Stiles' phone starts ringing.

"Is anybody dying? Because if nobody's been shot with a thousand wolfsbane bullets right on their pretty werewolf ass, it can wait. I'm having a situation of my own." He falls silent, abruptly, looks at Dylan. "Oh, shit."

"What?" He asks, curiosity taking the best of him.

"Do you, by any chance," He closes his eyes and pinches his nose with the fingers of his left hand. "Happen to have a buddy called Tyler Hoechlin?"

What. No.

"I'll take your gaping mouth as an enthusiastic 'yes'." Stiles says, and then keeps talking to whoever is on the phone with him. "Yes, yes. I've got one too." He smiles a little, tiredly. "Bring yours and I'll show you mine."

Dylan just stares at him, mind a constant reel of 'holyshitholyshitholyshit', stomach roiling painfully.

 

After Stiles hangs up, they don't have to wait long for Tyler and whoever he ended up with to reach them. It takes them fifteen minutes. Maybe even less. Stiles sits next to him for half that time, asking him about Tyler, about the rest of the cast, about whether thee's been anything strange that he hasn't been able to explain. 

When siting next to each other starts making everything too unbearably strange, Stiles coughs and goes for his macbook. Tripping twice over his feet. 

He's silently freaking out for the rest of the wait, while Stiles puts himself to work and starts researching alternative realities, wormholes, several physics terms that go way over his head and any and every single Dylan O'something he can find on the Internet.

When the door to the room opens somewhat violently, he curses his own stupidity. Of course it would be like this, all fucked up symmetry.

"Dylan." Tyler says, with eyes a little frantic and his voice higher than he's ever heard it, when he and Derek freaking Hale enter Stiles' room. Through the door. "Oh, man, thank God it's you here with me and not, well, Colton or Tyler."

Stiles talks right over Tyler, directly at Derek.

"Man, did you pick my lock?" Is what he asks from his desktop chair, ignoring the fact that there're fucking doppelgängers of themselves standing right in the same room as them. "Please tell me you didn't pick my lock. That would cross the ever blurry line between being creepy and being a damn stalker. And I'm so not ready to take that step on our relationship. Not one for commitment yet. Of any kind."

"No, I didn't pick your lock, you moron." Derek growls, and oh God, he's a scary mother fucker. Scarier than Tyler's ever been able to play him. And Tyler is good. "You forgot to lock the damn door."

"I'm pretty sure I didn't forget to--"

"You did." Derek interrupts him, the growling growing thicker, more menacing, and distinctly less human. Chills run down his spine. Literally.

Stiles only rolls his eyes, saying "Okay, Derek, I forgot to lock the door. I'll start being more careful."

Dylan might be a little impressed by Stiles. Because he might or might not have wanted to piss himself in fear.

It's not as humiliating as it could've been, because judging by Tyler's face, they are pretty much on the same boat.

"Who is he?" Derek asks, then, nodding at Dylan, who suppresses the urge to cringe, or cower.

"Oh! This is Dylan O'Brien." Stiles answers, all fake cheer and over the top enthusiasm. "He's an actor who apparently plays me on a TV show called Teen Wolf. That is just like the eighties movie with Michael Fox, y'know, only darker and edgier." He stops, then adds, "and I'm going to assume that you don't know this, either. That guy over there? The one that you've probably already scared into eternal nightmares? He is Tyler Hoechlin. Who's an actor in the same show and plays, surprise surprise, you."

The look in Derek's face is sort of priceless.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crack, people. Still crack. Still a little sorry.

When he wakes up inside the warehouse set, on a mattress on the floor, the only explanation he gives himself is 'okay, so I fell asleep on set. And Toby left me here, alone, as some humorous sadistic form of punishment'.

As glowing red eyes appear beside him, accompanied by a nice helping of fangs and a face that's identical to his, that flimsy explanation packs its bags and leaves through one of the (real, really real) warehouse's shitty gates. 

Then (real, really really real) claws enclose around his neck, red eyes and bared fangs getting uncomfortably closer, and he goes with the only one thing that feels like it could (literally, and oh God, it's not the time to try to be funny) save his neck.

"Derek, Derek, calm down and call Stiles before killing me, okay?"

 

Derek Hale and Stiles (whose first name they don't even know) are talking in low voices all the way over the window, while Dylan sits on Stiles' bed and seems to be doing something fairly akin to praying (for sanity or a way back -or both-, probably). 

He? He is still standing close to the door. Not because he is particularly attached to the plain wood it's made of, but because he is absolutely sure that if he attempts to move his legs will give up on him and land him flat on his ass on the rather uninteresting(ly hard) floor.

And he's not that keen to make friends with the ground. He's okay with managing himself at right this exact height. Completely comfortable with that.

Oh man, he's rambling. Inside his own mind. He's not even putting it on display, playing it up as a means to entertain a crowd. He's having an inner and involved conversation with himself. He hasn't been this awkward since he was fourteen.

Okay, seventeen. Tops.

Dylan clears his throat, attracting Derek and Stiles' attention for all of a second before they go back to dutifully ignoring them and having a heated hushed argument that has the younger kid pointing fingers in all random directions, talking faster than it should be possible without getting his tongue tied in tight knots, a deep flush lighting up his pale cheekbones; the older one clenching and unclenching his fists, hissing a few things here and there, eyes going from the kid's lively eyes to his mouth to his eyes, again and again. 

Huh. That's... 

A revelation of some sort.

"Does the sexual tension get this bad in our scenes? This explains so much." 

Stiles and Derek fall silent immediately, turning to look at him with disgruntled expressions. Derek's might look more like a constipation face. It makes him wonder if his face ever does that. If he is ever able to pull this grade of emotionally stunted. 

If so, that's a feat. And he's proud. 

Okay, focus. Stiles and Derek are still looking at him.

Oh. Oh, man. That was him, right? That was him running his mouth like the teenager he is not supposed to be anymore. 

"Oh, God. Yes, it does." Dylan mumbles.

Well, at least Dylan seems to agree with him.

That must count for something, right?

They don't ponder on this too much, though. Stiles just rubs his hand all over his face, exasperation oozing off him in such an obvious way that it must even smell. Permeate the air with the stench of eau de 'my life sucks so much'.

"I'm not even sure I want to know what goes on in your strange perverted minds, dudes. Anyway, here's the thing." He starts, brushing aside his youthful outburst in favor of being productive. Which, well, Stiles, he is the one who does that, that prioritizing thing. "Derek, here, is a fucking moron. And he loves to piss off the wrong kind of people." 

Derek growls at him. Growls. Honestly. Just, goes for it with the intensity of a real wolf. 

"Dude, you should know that that gets old and abso-freaking-lutely ineffective after the first few dozen times. Besides, it's true. I don't know how you manage to survive on a daily basis, you weirdwolf."

 

"Witches." Dylan says, tone neutral.

"Witches." He says, in complete fucking awe.

"Witches." Stiles clarifies. "Kickass genderqueer witches with reality altering powers and a bone to pick with Derek. Total Scarlet Witch in the House of M comics material. Only less dramatic. Slightly less dramatic." 

Now that's a plot twist that Jeff would adore.

 

Mary. The woman that's caused all this is called Mary. 

Really. The most anti climatic name he's ever heard in relation to a situation this big. Not that he's ever dealt with something quite like this outside of a set. Or a make up trailer.

The woman that's sent them off to a parallel universe is called Mary, is one of Stiles' friends from Jungle, enjoys listening to The Bangles, drinking Earl Gray and reading books on popular culture (irrelevant information that Stiles spews as he dials her number, under the impressive glare of Derek- seeing his face do that without partaking in the actual arrangement of muscles still freaks him out, by the way), lives on the other side of town and says the she's really sorry that her spell got so out of hand. Really, it was only meant to be a little way to settle scores with tall, dark and brooding. A little harmless fun. But they can pay her a visit and she'll fix everything.

That's also somewhat anti climatic, but he isn't complaining.

 

Stiles gives them ridiculous sunglasses and hats and scarves and they take the camaro.

 

"So, Teen Wolf." 

He's a chatterbox. He's aware of that little fact about himself. He loves to fill silence with his voice when it lasts too long, and he's always willing to relay information to other people. That's who he is. He's bright, out there, friendly. Talkative. 

So talk he does, rushed, working his tongue in the (third) best way he knows how to, under Dylan's mute scrutiny. Dylan's always been a bit shier, more prone to listening than to actively participating on conversations, at first. Once he gets the handle of people, though, he can run away with an idea like the best of them, talking until he felt drained. He's always interesting, then. Always funny and pleasant to listen to. When he's in a new environment, he's still himself and a great guy and charming as hell, but never gets around to offering up as many words as he does. Always more careful at, more shielded. 

They've been past that point in their relationship for some time now, it warms him to think that he's been let in. That where he is this serious, composed young promise to everyone out there, to him he is ska, awesome taste in movies and the wittiest humor sense. And a young promise with the brightest lights in sight in the near future, too.

Age is making him sentimental, isn't it? Man, and he's not even thirty. What is going to happen to him when he hits his middle life crisis.

Anyway, he goes on and on about the about the cast, the set. Talks about the fan reception, the countless tumblr pages, fanarts and fanfictions, fanvids and tweets, the fans screaming their heads off at the last SDCC for them when two years before there'd been nobody who knew who they were or why they were there. The whole story. 

Derek looks at him with an homicidal glint so magnificent it makes him want to sulk. Out of envy. Of his fictional character's better grasp of his own body language. Stiles just clutches his phone with long, strong fingers (like Dylan's, which are intertwined, resting between his parted legs as he assumes his favorite sitting position), looking maybe two seconds away from bashing it against his forehead repeatedly until he passes out.

"If this is what talking to me feels like, I'm sorry." He says to Derek, dry as a desert. "I'm sorry and I promise to buy myself a muzzle."

Is it weird that it makes him want to laugh? 

 

The mood is not light, by any stretch of imagination, but it isn't the huge ball of aprehension that riding alone with Derek to Stiles' house was. All in all, it's a 7, perhaps in a less optimistic light an 8 in a scale of tension-laden environments.

But then Dylan gets this pinched look on his face (the one apologetic sign he demonstrates before telling Jeff, 'hey, I don't think this works for Stiles'), and speaks.

"Since it's your fault that we are here, can we at least know what you did? Did you cop a feel? Exerted your social inexperience in the form of an unintended slur? Threatened to steal their man, woman, third gendered or agendered partner?" 

And, okay, he loves Dylan. But that gets the situation to a 9. Easily.

Derek grips the wheel with little to no restraint regarding his strength. Grits out, "Not your business."

Dylan huffs, looking at Stiles with his best 'is he serious? Tell me he isn't serious' face. It should win awards, that face. 

Stiles only glares at Derek, who ignores them all in favor of focusing on driving.

10\. This is a 10 out of 10, if he's ever seen one.

"So, the joys of Sterek."

Dylan groans. It's entirely possible that he doesn't deal with stress filled situations in the best of manners.


End file.
